


coffee shop soundtrack

by endofadream



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 10:10:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4387796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endofadream/pseuds/endofadream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man standing over him smiles, holding the carafes out, and Richard can't help but think that here is a man he could make a character out of.</p>
<p>Or, the coffee shop AU that every fandom needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	coffee shop soundtrack

Richard Armitage loves coffee. He loves the smell, the taste, and, most of all, he loves the way it helps him think, makes the adjectives and colorful descriptions and compound sentences drip from his fingertips like water. And today, like most days, begins with him at the little coffee shop-turned-hipster-hangout two blocks from his apartment in downtown New York, bundled up against the omnipresent nipping of the northeastern chill. 

Today also begins with a blank notebook, a tapping pencil, and an increasingly frustrated state of mind. Richard looks around the shop, contemplates the movements and mannerisms and moods of everyone around him, but still his mind remains annoyingly blank and uninspired like it has been for the last week. He writes ‘the,’ stares at it until the word blurs, and erases it vigorously.

He aches for a cigarette and has to settle for his half-empty mug of plain drip, one splash of hazelnut creamer. It’s lukewarm by now, steam long since curled and dissipated into nothingness, and Richard grimaces as he swallows it down. His pencil draws idly in the yellow margin of his paper, a black graphite smear-swirl not unlike the whirling body of a tornado, and just as soon as he sets his mug down a man is appearing at his side, holding out two different carafes as he asks, in a voice so deep and with a faint drawl that doesn't belong in a city full of thick, loud accents that Richard has to look up, "Regular or decaf?"

The man standing over him smiles, holding the carafes out, and Richard can't help but think that here is a man he could make a character out of: Long legs; lean torso; dark, heavy eyebrows; _tall_ in a way that Richard is unaccustomed to seeing, and he knows that if he were to stand up this man would tower over him by at least a couple of inches. He has no name tag pinned to the strap of his plain black apron, and he’s wearing a thick, cozy-looking scarf over the plain uniform of a white shirt and jeans. He smiles, close-lipped but friendly, but doesn't repeat himself. His hair is brown and messy, sun-kissed from the warm reminders of last summer, and his hazel eyes are warm like the honey that Richard sometimes enjoys putting in his tea.

"Uh, regular." Richard finally manages to speak, and holds out his mug, fingers trembling slightly on the light blue ceramic handle. He clears his throat at the rasp in his voice.

The man tips the black carafe and Richard watches the pour of rich brown liquid, inhales deep and soaks up steam and warmth and the bitter smell of coffee beans. He hopes it will still his trembling fingers, but as long as the man stands over him they refuse to stop and he’s reminded, too fiercely, of his youth, when he was afraid of and intimidated by everyone; and how, even now, that feeling still permeates.

"Nervous about something?" the man asks, twisting the lid and straightening up. He pushes back his hair with one hand and Richard stares, watches those long, elegant fingers card through the strands. He takes the stolen moment to commit to memory—for future descriptions of possible characters, he tells himself—sharp cheekbones, the strong line of the man’s jaw and chin. 

He can't remember the last time he'd been this unprepared about being stared at by a man, not since he’d let himself come to terms with it once he’d moved to the States, and the feeling is twisting and slippery and entirely unwelcome in his gut. Richard is a long way off from Leicester and the echoes of his boyhood, but it’s a difficult shadow to shake.

He swallows, reaches for one of the packets of creamer on the table with fumbling fingers, and pours it in. It clatters to the table with an empty, plastic sound when it slips, and Richard smiles sheepishly, feels the faint burn of heat on his cheeks. "Not really. Just needing a cigarette, is all."

The man laughs, and Richard finds himself holding onto the sound, searching out and lingering over the last notes of it in his ears. "You'd think the coffee would help," the man says, smiling just a bit more before turning around and heading toward the back. In front of him his coffee still swirls white-brown-blonde.

Richard clenches his hands into fists, stares at his hopelessly blank paper, and sighs.

— 

The next day it snows, thick white flakes falling from the sky to land on the upturned collar of Richard’s black wool peacoat. He weaves his way through the New York crowd with seasoned ease, satchel thumping against his side as he turns this way and that to miss harried-looking men and women. Inside his pockets his hands are clenched into tight fists, something he isn't aware of until he reaches the familiar storefront of the shop. He shakes them before gripping the handle and stepping inside, inhaling deeply out of habit. There is the heavy, sweet scent of fresh baking in the air, and Richard turns to the register to find that one of the glass cases have been stocked with large blueberry muffins. Richard slips off his gloves, rubs the cold tip of his nose, and absolutely, resolutely does not look for the man from yesterday.

He steps up to the queue, fishing around in his bag for his wallet hidden somewhere amongst notebooks and pens and too many loose sheafs of paper. He curses his disorganization and propensity to just throw his wallet wherever. By the time he reaches the register he’s still looking, movements a little more frantic. He says, without looking up, “I’m sorry, I seem to have misplaced my wallet—”

“It’s you again.”

Richard’s head snaps up, mouth falling open a little at that deep voice. He locks eyes with the man from yesterday, today without a scarf and now sporting a name tag that says _Lee._ The stubble on his face is a little darker today, and Richard, too surprised and without anything else to say, just says, “You have a name tag today.”

The man— _Lee_ —laughs, looks down, and Richard absolutely does _not_ stare at the dark fan of lashes over Lee’s high cheekbones. “Yesterday was my first day and I was in such a rush that I left it back at my apartment. Great first impression, huh?”

“The first time I submitted a piece to a magazine I forgot my name,” Richard admits, fingers finally closing around the worn leather of his wallet, thankful so that it prevents him from staring like he wants to. He fishes out his card and recites his usual, “One medium drip with a splash of hazelnut,” and adds, “and one of those muffins in the case.” 

“Good choice,” Lee says, punching in the order and reaching for a napkin and a plate. When he lifts the lid off the case the scent grows stronger, and Richard’s stomach rumbles as he remembers that he hasn't eaten anything since last night. “We just put these here about ten minutes ago.”

He hands the plate over, tells Richard the total, and asks, casually, “Name?” 

Richard blinks. “They don’t usually take names here.”

Lee grins, a gesture that scrunches up his eyes adorably, and says, “I know.” His eyes slowly drift down, just an inch or two, before back up, and oh.

_Oh._

Richard may be obtuse at the best of times, but there is no subtlety to the curious, hungry way that Lee looks at him. Heat rises up underneath Richard’s collar and suddenly his coat is too stifling. He fumbles back his card from Lee’s slim fingers, stumbles through his name, and nearly drops the receipt when Lee hands it to him with a low, deliberate, “Your order will be right up, _Richard_.”

His heart is hammering in his chest when he makes it over to the other end of the counter to wait, fingers trembling slightly when he shifts the plate in his hands. It’s been—well, ages is probably putting it mildly, Richard thinks, since he’s last been on a date, much less in a steady relationship. Ever since he’d moved to New York and his acting dreams had fallen through Richard has become more of a loner than he was before, preferring the company of his laptop and expansive book collection. It does wonders for the writing, his handful of published short stories and blog posts can attest to that, but it’s shite on the mind at the best of times, and downright awful on those lonely nights when he’s sitting at his windowsill nursing a glass of Pinot.

And Lee is— _god_ , Lee is still young and bright-eyed and has the world laid out in front of him. He hasn't had to deal with years of rejection like Richard has, hasn't had to watch his dream wilt and die all thanks to one failed show and such little faith in himself that he’d given it up entirely, turning his back on the bright lights of Broadway for the bright glow of a laptop screen. He doesn't know the weight of rejection that stoops Richard’s posture, doesn't know the long nights spent worrying, hating, wishing for something— _anything_ —to be different.

A mug placed at his elbow stirs him back to reality, and Richard turns, looks down before back up, and wishes that he could stop the catch in his breath when he stares into Lee’s eyes. He could create entire paragraphs about those eyes, moss-green and honey one moment, gray-blue the next. He follows the line of Lee’s neck, down to the hollow of his throat, slowly back up to the bow of his lips and the stubble dark across his face.

“Here’s your order,” Lee says. Adds, without preamble, “My break is in ten minutes.” And then he’s gone, disappearing through the door in the back; Richard is left blinking dumbly and nearly knocks the mug over when he scrambles to grab it and head to his usual table.

His coffee is growing cold, only a few sips gone, by the time that the chair across from Richard is pulled out with a jarring scraping noise. The page on the notebook in front of him is filled with unintelligible run-on sentences and chunks of stream-of-consciousness dialogue, things to pass the time while his heart thumped painfully in his chest. Neither of them say anything for a moment, and Richard, because he just _doesn't understand_ , asks, “Why are you interested in me?”

“It’s the accent.”

The answer startles Richard into looking up. Lee is grinning, head cocked, one lock of hair falling across his forehead. The light slants in from the window at just the perfect angle, throws shadows across Lee’s face and sculpts the soft-but-strong of his jaw into sharp angles. It makes Richard’s stomach flip, and he swallows hard. “I’m kidding,” Lee says, leaning forward and clasping his hands together on the tabletop, and Richard’s eyes trace every knuckle and vein. “I just think that you’re probably one of the most attractive men that I’ve seen since I moved here.”

Richard blushes, scoffs, says, “You say that to all your customers?” but doesn't mean anything by it; he can hardly swallow around the lump in his throat that he’s pretty sure is his heart. He doesn't know what else to say, honestly. He’s had his fair share of men and women hit on him, but no one’s ever intrigued him from the start like Lee does. No one’s made him want to take them home and learn everything about them, from the name of their first pet to the way that they look when they wake up in the morning.

“Just the pretty ones,” Lee replies, winking, and Richard inhales sharply through his nose.

He isn't spontaneous by nature, but there’s something about Lee that makes him want to lean across the table and kiss him breathless, if only to watch those keen, observant features go slack in surprise. Lee’s had the upper hand both days so far and Richard is itching to turn the tables, to watch Lee stammer and blush through his answers for once while Richard sits smug across from him.

“You don’t know anything about me,” Richard points out, wrapping his hand around his still-warm mug and drawing it closer. It’s a weak argument but it’s all that Richard has, all that’s left to defend the flimsy barrier between this man and the inevitable disappointment that he’ll feel when he discovers that Richard is no one special. He wants to live in these scant few minutes where he can still at least appear interesting.

“That’s what dates are for,” Lee chirps brightly, not deterred at all. “And fifteen-minute breaks. Speaking of—” He looks down at his phone, says, “You’ve got twelve minutes left,” and flashes Richard a bright, broad grin when he looks up.

Richard laughs and takes a sip of his coffee. Twelve minutes is reasonable, if only to humor Lee. Besides, he’d be lying if he said he wasn't intrigued about Lee as well, and this is a perfect excuse to disguise it as something else. He sets his mug down and steeples his hands under his chin. “What do you want to know, exactly?”

“Favorite color, why you moved here, why you chose to become a writer. All the fun stuff.”

“How did you—?”

“You told me that you submitted a piece to a magazine once,” Lee says with a smile. “So you’re either a writer full-time or part-time. And either way I am completely fascinated by it.”

 Richard clears his throat, unwilling, at first, to divulge his mediocre career as a columnist who sometimes gets lucky and has short stories posted in obscure literary magazines. But Lee seems to eager, seems like he genuinely does care, that Richard finds himself saying, “Full time. I have an online column. I write fiction on the side. I like wine and reading and film.”

 Lee nods, and Richard is quick, before Lee can ask, to say, “What about you?”

 “Besides working at this fine establishment, you mean?” Lee leans back in his chair. “I’m an actor. Or a wannabe one, at least. You never answered my question about your favorite color.”

 “Deflection,” Richard says, but adds, “It’s blue.”

 “Like your eyes.”

 It’s simple, but it makes a shiver work its way up Richard’s spine. Neither says anything, and the moment stretches on, seemingly infinite, as the words settle into the weight of the universe and hang, suspended, between them. They don’t need to, Richard realizes when it’s like the rest of the world—all the noise, the commotion, all of the people constantly coming and going—has been shut out.

He now thinks that he understands what people mean by electric, by being drawn to someone like puzzle pieces, edges filling out the spaces left in your life. He thinks, watching Lee’s irises search his face in small, rapid movements, that this is what the romantic movies get right: This is the moment, _that_ moment, and Richard’s heart picks up speed, elbows digging into the table painfully as he begins to lean forward.  

Lee looks down, swears, and stumbles to his feet, the scrape of the chair jerking Richard painfully back into reality. “I need to—shit, I need to get back to work, I’m sorry—”

His brows are drawn close in consternation, like he’s been jarred out of a deep sleep. It’s so adorable that it wakes Richard from his own haze and he waves it off, offers a small smile just to try and relax the lines on Lee’s forward. “It’s okay,” he says, and means it.

Lee doesn't look convinced when he leaves, hurrying behind the counter. Richard drinks his coffee, staring out the window, and sets his mug down only when it’s done. He turns towards the counter once more, seeking out the tall, broad line of Lee’s back; then, the rest of the coffee shop, from the couple at the other end to the young college student tapping away rapidly on her laptop, lips thin and bright orange headphones on.

When he leaves fifteen minutes later there’s a messily-torn piece of notebook paper on the table, a brown coffee ring faintly smudging the top right corner and the last of a number.

_The sun hit you just right, and I knew, then, what it meant to be speechless in the face of beauty; I knew, then, why moths are drawn to light, because to them it is something beautiful, and something beautiful has a gravitational force all its own. I can’t control it, and I don’t want to. I want to succumb, cut my tethers and trust, blindly, the way that we all navigate through life, that things will work out._

_Dinner tomorrow night?_

_x Richard_

**Author's Note:**

> Check me out on [Tumblr](http://endofadream.tumblr.com/)! Reviews are always lovely <3


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